


Once

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [99]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Hinted Aromantic Character, M/M, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28323300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [99]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Once

The full moon hung overhead, forest for once quiet, low with the ambience of insects, wing beats amongst the tree branches, the sullen whisper thin hums of the trees as they passed secrets in between each other. The great pines loomed their shadows, exchanged their silent words with their golden orange birch kin, and in this deepend, light filled night the forest hummed deep in their roots, alive and awake.

For once, Wilson didn't find it suffocating, having someone loom over him so thoroughly. Dark, pitch black eyes stared down at him, only the faintest reflection of the blue tinted moon light that seemed to shine from those flooded depths, and it was just so rare, for him to be in this position.

To allow himself to be in this position, anyway. Leaned up against a tree, some grand pine or other, needles and weeds crushed underfoot, and he looked upwards as the former Nightmare King stared down at him.

There was a hesitance in this, he had felt it earlier, thick in the air and making the old man's movements slow and cautious, but Wilson had just arched a brow, smirked a bit and egged it on in the name of wanting to _know_.

He sort of already knew, of course, but it was full moon and the forest was quiet and it was just the two of them out here, and if he felt a bit brazen in something like this then he was going to poke and prod and act out on it with as much time as he got. 

And anyway, he knew Maxwell wanted something of him these past few days, and not of the usual. That was getting easier to read, or more like ask of the old man as of late; what a prude nature, for a known voyeur and his antics upon the Throne. The Nightmare King had not left many good memories for survivors of the board to remember him by, but it helped Wilson in understanding a bit more.

The shadows stole too much, continued to take and take and take till there was nothing left, and now that even They had up and abandoned Their former charge what had once been an egotistical, somewhat sadistic man was now a more...unstable mess. 

Not a very pleasant one, especially with the memories Wilson himself carried, what he remembered, but Maxwell, no matter his self destructive doubts, has shown time and again that what he was _now_ was vastly removed from what he had been _then_. At this point Wilson could not find it in himself to judge the old man any longer; what had happened had happened, retribution and judgements made, and now a sense of normalcy and familiarity was to come of it all.

Forgiveness was not a given, never will be, but Wilson still stood here, quiet and patient, waiting for that next step his partner was planning to enact, and he felt no ill will in it.

They've done this before, not at all often, near never, and if he was to be entirely honest Wilson would never care to allow it, but Maxwell's hesitance was melting away as the moon rose higher in the sky, as a hand crept up and brushed against Wilson's ribs in a soft, slow trail. 

This was not really for him, Wilson knew, but he'd not say it like that.

 _"Once in a blue moon."_ He had said, whispered a long while back, and Maxwell had hummed in agreement, allowed his hand to be taken and held and the briefest of shakes in contract, and it had made Wilson smirk at the oddly childish display but-

Maxwell had smiled too, and the deal was sealed.

Once in a blue moon, Wilson knew, and this full moon was _blue_ , an absolute color, not some pale splashed thing or glowing ethereal light; this was _their_ blue moon, and Wilson looked up at the older man and gave him a small, soft smile.

It wasn't much of a smile that was answered back at him, more like a wobbling grimace, uncertainty, that thin vein of shame and self doubt, but Wilson didn't allow the old man to make some sort of decision he'd regret later on.

He couldn't even remember the last time they've done this, that was how long it's been, how long he's been allowed his space, and the familiarity he had with the other man made it seem so obvious now, watching as his moods shifted ever so subtly, the weights of the past growing heavier. He wasn't exactly the one to help Maxwell with that, he had his own sorrows, his own nightmares to contend against, but Wilson tried to pay attention nowadays.

If they were lucky, these blue moons arose when it was nearing that horizon finish, when the former Nightmare King was starting to lose his battles, his hidden struggles growing weaker. Those times were becoming clearer, in how he held himself, growing quieter, pricklier, cruel even to the children, and Wilson had his own worries to handle, others to care for, dangers to defend against and this whole world that was always, always trying to do them all in. He can't fight Maxwell's battles for him, and, deep inside, he knew he didn't want to.

But, at the very least, there was a small gesture he _can_ do. It brushed him wrong in those deep nights where his mind was flagging against the shadows whispers, haunted him sometimes, but Wilson has long accepted the things he could and could not do when it came to Maxwell.

He can do this for him, once on a blue moon.

The former Nightmare King stilled as Wilson laid his hands to his face, palms pressed to hollow cheeks, dull clawed thumbs drifting and then going still on cold, pale skin, and Wilson looked up at him, looked into those pitch black, empty dark eyes.

And the soft glimmer, the faintest of faint impressions, suffocating far underneath it all.

He wasn't supposed to be the one to initiate this, not really, but that event horizon must be closer than he'd like to think of it and Maxwell was being too hesitant, too distanced to take that step forward, so Wilson rubbed his thumbs up to those high cheekbones and gave the old man a slight, brief nod before leaning in.

There was no answering back, for a moment, cold lips and skin as Wilson closed his eyes, a bit strained in trying to match the difference in their heights, but then those gloved hands that had settled on his hips rose up, movement forward, and his offering to meet in the middle was accepted with all the shivering enthusiasm he knew Maxwell would answer him with.

Which was to say, tainted by that vague desperation and ever humming ambient _want_. Sometimes that reminded him of being out in the wilds all by himself, tending to lone campfires, wrinkling his nose to that swathe of stinking tobacco and rotten flowers, going tense and nervous, glaring as the shadows outside his firelight moved and twisted and _watched_ him with an interest he didn't understand.

He still didn't, not quite, and his own doubts rose to mind often, of _why_ , of _how,_ he was just some eccentric hermit who had lived by himself for so long, _wanted_ to live by himself, the world outside of him had never matched the standards he had wanted of it and when he had tried to introduce his own ideas, his own thoughts, he had been belittled, mocked, and as such had taken his genius for himself, if the world didn't want what he offered then _he will keep it all to himself-_

But that selfish line of thinking had gotten him into this mess, hadn't it? He had liked to believe that he'd make them see, he'd make them all _see_ , his inventions will raise him above this dirt and mud and everyone will just _see_ what they had passed over in their ignorance, their stupidity, and he'd make them _see_ what they will never have-!

And yet here he was now, doing all he could, putting his genius to work in surviving, living with so many different people, everything he was in making life easier for not just himself but everyone he knew. That was what he had wanted in the beginning, after all, and the real world had scoffed at him and shoved him down into the dirt for thinking such things.

Wilson had little love for the Constant, but for all its dangers and hatred it has opened his eyes to more than just the bitter anger that had once seated itself in his chest, that rage against the world for tossing him aside, and in its place was something far more caring than he had ever thought he'd nurture.

He cared a lot more, here, than in his little shack in the woods. He's learned to care for it all, in this place, and now whenever he caught sight of the others, of stubborn Willow and stern Wickerbottom, cheerful Wolfgang and content Woodie, admirable Wigfrid and intriguing Wx78, ever mysterious Wes and iron willed Winona, insightful, and exceedingly anxious, Warly, the growing collection of children, Webber, Wendy, Walter, Wurt, even Wormwood and Wortox, hell, even the _Queen_ , as lonely at the top, on the Throne, as she was-

Wilson _cared,_ more than he's ever cared before, and sometimes he'd find himself awestruck by this realization, that someone as solitary as himself, as bitter and lost in thoughts of grandeur as he had been, could feel like...like _this._

He'd have never imagined it of himself, when he had been younger. Ironic to think about, but he was sure his younger self would look upon him with disdain nowadays.

Gloved hands, the faintest hint of talons curled into his hair, tangled with knots and tugged lightly before getting a firm, close grip, then dragging through and sending faint buzzing sensations from the contact, the almost familiar action as patterns were drawn haphazardly along his skull, and Wilson hummed at that, a soft noise that seemed to encourage the former Nightmare King on. 

His eyes half opened, just a bit squinted, and Maxwell had his shut tight, hollow, wrinkle laden face shadowed over by the blue full moons light, and Wilson let his own dull clawed hands curl to the back of the other man's neck, get a light, stabilizing grasp, just enough to balance.

Maxwell's face was soft, his kisses softer, breaking away long enough to pepper kisses to the corner of his mouth, his cheek, dip to his neck as those gloved talons guided his head into a lean, and Wilson let out a breath of chilly air, gaze drifting to the sky, the moons light through the branches and leaves of the pine tree.

"I…" Maxwell whispered, hissed low against his skin as his hands tightened, near clawed against Wilson in such a tight, desperate grip, burying his face for a mere moment against his shoulder, then slid against his neck and throat, "...I love you dearly, Wilson."

"...I know." Wilson softly answered back, a quiet, low mumble, and his partner shivered at his voice, at his short, blunt words, pressed up against him and clinging tight, before Maxwell leaned back a moment, pitch black eyes open, gaze meeting his own in a soft, quiet moment.

He allowed the man to kiss him once more, those dark eyes flashing in the blue full moons reflective light, that drowning glimmer inside brightening as Maxwell pressed a smile against him, a shudder that felt more like relief than anything else as talons drifting out of his hair, trailed his shoulders, the rest of his body, and Wilson allowed the touch for a bit longer, just for a little while longer.

Eventually the old man seemed to tire, or perhaps grow exhausted from the show of emotional need, want, and pressed his forehead to Wilsons shoulder, hands flagging their mapping trails, shuddering breaths laced with more than just fatigue exhaled against him. There was warmth, in the contact, and Wilson gently untangled his hands from where he held Maxwell, instead taking the moment to hook and catch with gloved fingers instead, grip nice and tight together.

The former Nightmare King shivered against him, still breathing heavy, strained, and the full blue moon up ahead reached its peak, hanging above them and the forest.

Watching them, Wilson knew idly, Knowledge turning sluggishly in his head, but right now his attention was upon his partner and no other.

...He cared about Maxwell, too. For all that has been done, said and judged and damaged, Wilson still _cared._

Not more than the others, no, but differently. With one hand holding firm to the old man's free hand, his other wrapped about Maxwell's side and keeping them both pressed together, the slightest of leans at their height difference, Wilson laid his head against the others and exhaled a slow, soft breath.

His lips still tingled a bit, mouth strained from the little exercise he near never engages, or even allows, finds any interest in, but Maxwell hugged up against him, shifted as he raised his head enough to bury his face against Wilson neck, brushing against his greasy thick hair, a low, exhausted sigh escaping the old man in a rattling hush.

 _Once in a blue moon,_ Wilson's thoughts drifted lazily in his mind's eye, and he tilted his head to press against his partners, letting a low hum escape him in doing so. They'd not do this again for a long, long time, not until the full moon blooms ocean blue once more, and that promise was enough to settle his own grievances and general dislikes well enough. They didn't usually do this for some very specific reasons, after all.

But Wilson allowed it of Maxwell, for now, for this moment. He cared too much for the old fellow, cared about his wellbeing, his mentality, his happiness.

Well, there was an obvious lack of that nowadays. Wilson wasn't the one who would fix it, as if there was any way to fix it anyhow, but at the very least he could help. He could show he did care, even if most of his ways were brushed aside by the old man's own depreciating habits, and this was one of the rare moments where he allowed Maxwell a bit more from him.

A bit of hope, was all. Enough to grant some flurries of almost happiness, and maybe even turn back the tide of darkness, of anchor weights that threatened to drag the former Nightmare King down into the abysses that haunted him. 

Wilson couldn't drag him out of there, not with such a steeped canyon, not when his offers of help were so often met with silence-

But he could light the torch, that flickering flame of hope, guidance. He wasn't a beacon, or a dazzling flare, but maybe this small flame, this small light offered from the palms of his hands, could be just enough for now.

Maybe not forever, or even for that long, but…

Maxwell hummed against him, one hand held tightly with another and the other still caressing stray locks of hair from the back of Wilson's neck, a brief brush of another soft kiss to the dip of his shoulder and throat, and a faint, soft smile found itself on Wilson's face for a moment. 

Maybe he cared _too_ much, but that didn't matter anymore, not here. He can offer some hope, in dark times, even to Maxwell on his most foul of end days, and perhaps even the Constant agreed with him.

_Once in a blue moon indeed._


End file.
